


One

by Batwynn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Everyone is sassy, F/M, FrostIron - Freeform, Graphic Description, M/M, Sassy, Small amount of Pepper and Tony, Tony-centric, Vampire Loki, Vampire Thor, Violence, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Romania, something's dug up out of the ground, and kills Todd the news anchor on live television. Which Tony just happens to be watching at the time.</p><p>A few months later, there's an undiscovered species on display in New York. Fresh from Romania.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being more plotty than I intended. It's not edited, i'm afraid, but hopefully i'll have the time to go over it again soon.
> 
> [And many many thanks to Elena for her help with the Romanian. Google translate is just poo.]

 

 

 

 

** Everyone's heard the stories. The ones about blood, and dying, and _not_ dying, and pretty ladies getting dragged into evil lairs to become bloodied up sex slaves.  **

 

** Wait, that last one might have been a porno, ignore that. Unless you're into that kind of thing, which, okay; not judging.  **

 

** My point is: everyone knows about vampires. They're everywhere. **

 

** Just look up the mysterious Vlad the Impaler on Wikipedia, or better yet, venture into the world of Creepy Pasta. Or, how about Bram Stoker with his 'Dracula', all the way back in the 1890's? And you have most likely seen at least one vampire movie in your life—even Blackula—or eaten the breakfast cereal with that big-eyed cartoon vampire on it, or bought a five dollar Halloween costume for your kid. Complete with fake blood pills, plastic teeth, and a cape.  **

 

** You can't be alive today and not have experienced something vampire related. Probably. Unless you’re Amish or something, and even then, who knows. **

 

** So really, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone when a real one actually showed up.  **

 

* * *

 

 

"What you are seeing now is live footage from Odorheiu Secuiesc, Romania—where archeologists have just removed the mysterious air-tight pod, found buried under several other graves on the church site." 

 

 "Tony," Clint called from the table. "Turn that crap off." 

 

"Shh shhh shh!" Tony waved at him to shut up, and turned the volume up. 

 

"—have no idea where the pod could have come from, or why it was buried beneath several unmarked graves. Archeologist have long since discovered that all written records of these churches have been destroyed, lending only more mystery to their recent discovery. Here's Todd, with the latest." 

 

The screen switched from the blond news anchor in bright pink to a flushed, tweedy looking man holding a microphone in one hand and an umbrella in the other. The useless umbrella was doing its damnedest to escape Todd's hands, while the rain blew in anyway at a nearly horizontal angle.

 

"Thank you Susan," Todd yelled into the mic. "What you're seeing now is the product of years of work. Archeologist recently moved on to the Teleac church last year, where they found several strange things about the people buried there." 

 

"Yeah yeah, we know all this. Get on with it," Tony drawled. 

 

Clint's voice rose over the noise of the TV, "Who's this 'we'?" 

 

"Bruce was following the news, too. It's not my fault you're an uncultured red neck." 

 

" _Red neck_?!" 

 

Turning, Tony hissed, "SHHH!", then brought his attention back to the TV. 

 

Todd was gone again, replaced by a shaky, blurry image of something huge and black being lifted from the ground. It was definitely not a pod. Tony has seen all kinds of pods, and that was not one. 

 

"—to be some kind of coffin—"

 

"No shit, Todd," Tony muttered, and leaned in to squint at the terrible footage. In 2015, no less. "JARVIS, can we do something about this?" 

 

“I’m afraid the signal is too weak and the cameras are low quality, sir.” 

 

“—you can see how carefully they are handling the pod, Susan. If any air gets in—“

 

“Make up your mind, Todd. Is it a pod, or is it a coffin?” Tony teased, moving closer to the screen in a futile response for clarity. “Maybe it’s the storm, JARVIS.” 

 

“Maybe it’s aliens,” Clint offered. 

 

“Maybe it’s your mom,” Tony shot back. “Oh—oh, look! It’s cracked—I see a crack!I see a bigger crack. Ooooh, they broke it. Todd, you brooooke it!”

 

And Tony laughed until the screaming started, and Todd disappeared in a blur of red, and the camera cut out with Susan calmly telling everyone that they were having technical difficulties while looking like she was about to burst out crying or throw up. Ironically, the image of a big, juicy steak popped up on screen as they cut to commercials. But Tony was no longer laughing. 

 

“What the _hell_ was that?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_That_ was none of their business, apparently. The government of Romania—namely, a very stressed Prime Minister who ‘didn’t have time for this nonsense’—said they were to stay out of it. It was understandable, considering that he was currently in a difficult situation and everyone was pretending Todd, an entire team of archaeologists, and freshly hired workers weren’t missing. Every call Tony made was another run around, another denial, anther angry man telling him to mind his own business, _idioată alb_. Which was fine, really, because Tony knew politics were messy, and mysterious murders were even messier. 

 

But he was curious _,_ and everyone knew that telling him not to do something usually ended with him doing it anyway, only louder. So, it really shouldn’t have come to a surprise that a week after the incident, Tony went to Romania.

 

 Oh, and the team tagged along. Apparently they—‘they’ being Fury, and the team conspiring together—didn’t trust him enough not to ‘start _another_ international incident’. 

 

“The footage is so grainy,” Bruce complained, again. He’d been watching and re-watching the same four minutes of news footage from that day, jotting down notes and pointing out things that Tony had already noticed the first time around. “I don’t see a crack in the pod, Tony.” 

 

“There’s a crack. 3.45 marker, it’s near the bottom of the pod—no, enough. I’m not calling it that anymore. The _casket_. It’s a casket.” 

 

“I don’t see it.”

 

“Then you need glasses.”

 

Bruce huffed, “I _have_ glasses.”

 

Tony turned around in his seat and squinted at Bruce from across the jet. “Well what do you know, you _do_ have glasses. Huh. And you still don’t see it?”

 

“Just show me and stop bragging about the fact that you saw something no one else did.” 

 

Tony, sliding over two chairs and a couch to get to Bruce, yanked the laptop from his hands. After rearranging everything on the screen around to how he liked it, he scrubbed to the 3.45 marker, jabbed a finger into the screen, and stated, “Crack.”

 

Bruce squinted, tilted his head, squinted some more. 

 

“Honestly, I don’t… oh… oooh, that part. I thought was just a clump of earth.”

 

“‘Clump of earth’’,” Tony repeated in his best ‘snob’ voice, scrubbing back two more frames. “Then why isn’t it there right here? It literally cracks right before their eyes, and then there’s the blurry thing, and Todd screams—yadda yadda—bam, no more video.” 

 

Bruce sighed, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose in his usual, ‘I’m putting up with you’ way. He had been interested in the dig way before Tony was, but lost interest when his recent project got set back several stages. There was an issue with contamination, and he had to start from stage 2 all over again. (Namely, Clint went in his lab. No further explanation needed.) 

 

“Well, as far as I can tell, something does come out of the pod—“

 

“Casket.”

 

“Casket,” Bruce amended. “Something comes out, runs around at super human speed, and does… something that apparently kills the crew. I can’t get a clear shot from any of this footage. It’s already too corrupt, and honestly, this isn’t exactly my field of expertise.” 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said, and closed the laptop with a snap. “That’s what we’re here to figure out.”

 

“Not quite there yet,” Steve called from the cockpit. He popped his head around the door to address the group. “Still got twenty minutes before we land, and we’ve had several alerts from the tower telling us to turn around.” 

 

Tony snorted, and Steve gave him a knowing smile.

 

 Yeah, like _that_ was going to happen. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You must get back on the plane, sir.” 

 

“For one thing, it’s a jet,” Tony drawled, carefully placing his suit-case suit on the ground beside him. “For another, me and the band here are on vacation. Do you have a problem with that?” 

 

“Please, sir, you were not permitted to land here.“

 

“Says _who_?”

 

Steve came up behind him, and touched his shoulder. It was one of those warning things the solider did whenever Tony opened his mouth at public galas, or any kind of diplomatic meetings that Fury sent them along to. If they didn’t want him to talk, why send him at all? He had much better things to do than schmooze with government officials and, ugh, _no one_ liked the director of homeland security anyway. Seriously, he saw more of that man’s face than Pepper’s these days.

 

So, he actually got a lot of shoulder squeezes and cleared throats from Steve, and sometimes Bruce, and… never Clint. The warnings were typically ignored—like he was doing right now.

 

“Tell your prime minister to get back to evading his taxes or whatever it is that he did that’s got him in hot water, and let us enjoy the lovely weather here in…” Tony frowned, and looked to Bruce. “Where are we again?”

 

Bruce blinked a few times before answering. “Târgu Mureș.”

 

Tony hissed, “Where the fuck is _that_?” at the same time as the grumpy advisor started to yell something in Romanian, and Bruce began to get that panic in his eyes. The green-flavored panic. 

 

“Noi v-am cerut să plece , iar noi nu va cere din nou!Întoarce-te pe dumneavoastră—!”

 

Bruce replied in a small voice, “It’s… it’s an hour’s… drive to Odorheiu…”

 

“Hey!” Tony snapped, turning back to the man to shout over him, “ _Hey!_ Cool it. You’re freaking him out, and that’s—“

 

“—Noi nu vrei aici. Acum pleca înainte—“

 

“Tony…”

 

“—Because this guy is the _Hulk_ and I really doubt you want him running around _smashing_ all your little cob shacks and—“

 

“ **Tony**.”

 

The man stuttered to a stop and stared over Tony’s shoulder.“The Hulk?”

 

_Please tell me they’re not playing ‘name the thing standing behind me’_ , Tony prayed, and slowly turned back to his friend with the awkward smile he reserved for sudden Hulk. Oddly enough, green eyes met him at his eye level rather than ten feet above, and, granted, there was a lot of rage in that face, but it was still Bruce’s face. For the moment. 

 

“Uh, hey buddy. Sorry about—“

 

“ **We’re leaving**.”

 

Tony swallowed a little lump of nervousness and asked, “You sure? Because I bet we could talk our way—“

 

“ **Now**.”

 

“Right, okay, sure. Yep.” Tony turned to address Steve, “Cap, you heard the man. Back on the jet.”

 

“Loud and clear,” the soldier replied, disappearing up the steps before you could say ‘Run, Steve, Run.’ Bruce followed him up a moment later, taking each step with slow deliberation. Tony could hear his breathing from all the way down there.

 

“So…” he hummed, turning back to the men who were now at least ten steps back from where they were originally standing. They were also muttering amongst themselves, while eyeing the door to the jet with the appropriate amount of fear. More importantly, they were distracted, and his suitcase was right beside him, and he could still hop in a suit, and fly over there before anyone even noticed he was gone. An hour’s drive, Bruce said? Tony could be there in a few minutes, and by the time they got someone over there to yell at him some more, he’d probably be done looking around anyway. 

 

“Stark!” someone called from the jet. “Pepper’s on the phone.”

 

“Right then. Nice meeting you!” he yelled at the gaggle of confused suits, plucking up his suitcase and bolting up the stairs. Staring an international incident was no big deal, but dealing with a pissed off Pepper Potts was terrifying.

 

* * *

 

 

Flight time: 34 hours and 50 minutes.

 

Pepper Potts call duration: 2 hours, 13 minutes, and 24 seconds.

 

Director Fury call duration: 1 minute and 32 seconds. 

 

Total amount of time spent standing on the tarmac in Romania: 9 minutes and 13 seconds.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He forgot. 

 

In all honestly, he _completely_ forgot about the whole Romania thing. It wasn’t as though he didn't have the news clips saved somewhere on something, or that he didn't still get notifications from Don, the head of the archeologist department, who just happened to not be there that day due to food poisoning. (His last Twitter post read something about bronze coins, with a picture of bowl of soup called Jókai Cracow, and fried cheese.) And it wasn’t as though Bruce didn’t avoid him for an entire tense month, claiming he needed constant focus, no interruptions. Oh, and there was Clint, who bothered him about not bringing him along for about a week before Tony replaced the sugar in jar by the coffee maker with salt. Natasha was… well, Natasha. She didn’t comment on the trip one way or another. So, he had plenty of reminders, really, but he was busy now, and Bruce had been _so_ irritated with him about the whole thing, and Steve didn’t seem to remember it, and Fury had found something else to bitch at him about. He might have just, sort of, _politely_ forgotten about it. 

 

And moved on. He invented a new suit that utilized the same shielding technology as a certain helicarrier, but ten times smaller and a million times cooler. The first time Tony went invisible, everyone clapped. A week later, they had a celebration for Steve’s birthday that involved drinking contests, the Ironettes, and a lot of fireworks. After that, both Steve and Natasha disappeared on a mission, while Clint roamed around the tower ‘testing his skills’ and generally being an obnoxious little shit. Bruce came out of hiding more often. They talked science. It was good. 

 

Exactly four months after the Romanian incident, the Central Park zoo made the news with the upcoming event for the unveiling of some ‘never seen before’ creature. Generally, Tony wasn’t interested in animals. They smelled, needed to be taken care of—something Pepper had to often remind him to do, himself—and offered him no intellectual challenge. He really couldn’t give two shits if they unveiled a golden egg-laying dinosaur that danced the salsa when it was hungry. 

 

But, of course, Bruce was _fascinated_ , and everyone decided to make a big day out of it, and it didn’t matter if Tony had a new project, he was going, and that was that. 

 

“It’s probably just a mutation, or a subspecies,” he argued past a mouthful of quickly dissolving cotton candy. If they were going to drag him along, he was making them pay in food. “And where’s Clint? Did we lose him at the bird exhibit?” 

 

“It’s not either,” Bruce muttered, pretending to be all huffy about it when the man was all smiles. Literally, he hadn’t stopped smiling since they got there. It was kind of creepy. He was probably scaring the kids. “They can’t claim it’s an actual new species unless it is one. They would say ‘subspecies’ or ‘mutation’; and last I saw him, he was talking to one of the owls.”

 

“Bruce, my buddy, my man. You don’t _really_ believe that they wouldn’t lie about it. People have been manipulating the public with this kind of thing since the first three-ring circus rolled up with the ‘Alien’ exhibit that turned out to be a cow fetus.” Tony stuck his tongue into the mass of pink and blue sugar and took simple pleasure in the tingly feeling of it melting in his mouth. “Besides, it’s the zoo. They’re always making a big fuss about some kind of ant or worm thing that supposedly lives forever. It makes them money.” 

 

Bruce muttered something that might have been, “cynical old man,” and shuffled on ahead. He was clearly determined to get front row seats to this freak show, and all Tony wanted was some of that fried dough they were selling by the ‘Tropic Zone’.  

 

Then came the warning-shoulder-squeeze, and Roger’s saying, “Cut him some slack, Tony. We finally got him out of the lab and into a public place. Think of this as an accomplishment.” 

 

“Fine,” Tony sighed, admitting defeat. “I’ll grant you that one, O-Captain. Just keep an eye on him. Kids can be terrifying little monsters, and we’re fucking surrounded by them. I’ve already wanted to throw something at at least ten of them since we passed through the gate, and I can only imagine how the Other Guy must be feeling.” 

 

“I doubt Banner is allowing him much leeway right now,” Natasha chimed in, falling into step beside Tony with a much larger spool of cotton candy. “He’s in full scientist mode. Nothing can break him out of it, not even child-induced rage.”

 

Tony ignored her words completely. “How did you get _that_?” he asked, jabbing a finger at the crown glory of cotton candy. 

 

She smirked, took a bite, and slowly replied, “I smiled at him.”

 

“You sexual deviant.”

 

“I know, I’m horrible. Next I’ll be flashing some ankle.”

 

“Don’t do that. Steve might faint.” 

 

Steve sputtered a loud, “Hey!”

 

 

The building itself was actually kind of impressive. Tony spotted at least ten different high-tech security measures. Coupled with the lack of windows and armed guards, the place was a regular fortress. Now _that_ piqued his interest, because there was no reason for any of that if it was just some deep sea worm thing. Obviously they were talking some real animal shit here, and Tony was probably going to have to apologize to Bruce later. Maybe buy him some cotton candy. 

 

“Please step through the chamber!” a woman called out, beckoning the crowd to follow her through the most ornate, bank vault-sized door Tony’s ever seen. “Please turn off your cell phones, as loud noises tend to startle him. We also ask you to turn off your camera’s flash, and stay behind the yellow line at all times.”

 

Tony frowned at the floor, looking for said line. He didn’t need to worry, really, there were only about 100 people in front of him already. Yellow line, right, he’d get right on that. 

 

“Please come in—yes, come on in, we need to close the door,” she continued, waving in the last few people who managed to wedge their way into the crowd. The entire room was jammed full of people, with kids on shoulders, even boyfriends lifting up their girlfriends to see. And then there was Tony, standing behind fucking Steve-six-foot-tall-Rogers. 

 

“Real American of you,” Tony groused, poking the back of the soldier’s knees with a foot. 

 

“Oh, sorry,” Steve replied, turning to smirk down at him. “Did you want me to put you on my shoulders?” 

 

“Hilarious,” Tony snapped, elbowing the man in the gut to get past him. “I’d watch your back, if I were you.”

 

“I’m not worried; you can barely reach my back.”

 

Tony flipped him the bird, much to several parent’s distaste, and continued the Elbow Battle of 2015 to get to the mysterious yellow line. He found Bruce toeing said line and staring at the curtain with focused intensity. Nothing green there yet, but Tony could tell he was pushing himself. 

 

“Hey, all good?” he inquired, resting a hand on the scientist’s back. 

 

“Mostly. It’s just… if I lose control, all these people…”

 

“Will be fine, because that’s not going to happen. This is exciting, not scary, right? No one’s going to attack you, unless maybe that ten-year-old little shit over there. He’s been throwing chunks of bread at a little girl for ten minutes now.”

 

“We’ve only been in here for three minutes.”

 

Tony didn’t comment on the fact that Bruce had been counting, and gave his back a little rub. It seemed to help, a little, and the crowd slowly settling into a hum seemed to help all the more. And then a guy with a blue, yellow, and red striped sash stepped up in front of the curtain, and alarms started to go off in the back of Tony’s mind. It was the same uniform he saw only once before, standing next to an angry, yelling Romanian advisor. 

 

“Ah, the people of New York,” the man began, his voice rich, and heavily accented. “I would like you welcome you to this exhibit personally. The people of Romania are pleased to share our discovery with you, in the name of progress, science, and friendship.”

 

_Shit._

_It can’t be._

_Shitshitshitshit._

 

“Is he…?” Bruce wondered, eyes wide and flecked with green.  

 

“But enough from me, you are not here for me, no?” 

 

The crowd chuckled and clapped appropriately, and he bowed to them like any good ringleader would. Then, he was gone, and the curtain was drawn back to reveal the mysterious creature. 

 

_Shitshitshitshit._

 

“It’s a… _human_ ,” someone whispered. 

 

Except it wasn’t, was it? It _looked_ like a person, dark, long hair hanging around his face like depressing, gothic drapes. There was a nose, and fingers, and probably human-like ears in there somewhere. He was all hunched up against the far wall, bony knees draw up tight against his chest like a person might sit. But it didn’t move like a person. It didn’t move at all, not even the usual rise and fall of one’s chest when they breathed. It wasn’t fucking _breathing_. 

 

And those eyes… those were the least human part of him. What kind of green _was_ that? Tony doubted there was even a word for it, and besides, what kind of not-breathing thing had such vivid, burning eyes like that anyway? 

 

“That’s a person!” someone yelled, and that was the cue for the crowd to fucking lose it. Everyone surged forward, anger and confusion washing through the crowd like wildfire. Both Bruce and Tony were shoved over the yellow line, people were lashing out, screaming about injustice, slavery, and ‘what kind of sick joke is this!?’ And Tony could feel that drop in pressure that always happened around Bruce when he was about to change. 

 

“Okay, okay, okay, okay—we’re going—we’re gone, it’s okay, Bruce,” Tony babbled, trying to place himself between the crowd and his friend. This earned him an elbow to to the eye—which fucking hurt, thank you very much—and suddenly the chain that was supposed to keep people back from the yellow line got tangled around his legs. He was on the ground in the blink of an eye, Bruce was gone—hopefully outside by now—and for a moment, Tony couldn’t catch his breath. 

 

This was how people got trampled to death at Black Friday sales. This was how you die in a really, really stupid way, and not how Tony planned on going out. In a zoo, trampled by stupid New Yorkers. 

 

It took far too much effort to drag himself backwards, turn over, and pull himself off the floor. But he did it, and there was enough of a gap between all the shouting people for him to pause and catch his breath. His eyebrow seemed to be bleeding, which he found out when his vision went a little red in his left eye, and he could already feel several bruises forming from where people managed to step on him, or maybe from the damn chain biting into his skin. Over all, he was fine. Really, he was. 

 

And then there was silence, and the gap around him grew wider. 

 

Because, well, it was natural to be disturbed when the not-breathing thing in the cage was suddenly right there on the other side of the bars, cold fingers curling around Tony’s wrists, and green-green-green eyes were swallowing him up. 

 

“Uh—“ Tony choked out, too bewildered for anything more intelligent. He had a really, _really_ bad feeling he had seen this guy before, or, more like an after-image of him. 

 

It was inching in slowly, much to his horror, and staring at him so intently Tony had to wonder if he had somehow managed to insult its mother, or something. Not that he was looking him in the eye, anyway. The guy-thing seemed to be much more interested in— _oh fuck he’s licking me. He’s licking my eyebrow—ohmygodwhatthefuck?_

 

“W-what are you…?” 

 

“Do not move,” the thing rasped between lapping up the blood from Tony’s brow. It sounded more like the rustle of paper than a voice, but there was a power to it that made Tony want to do exactly what it told him to. So, he didn’t move. Not even when the guards started talking to him, trying to reassure him that everything would be okay. They didn’t matter, why should he listen to them? Boring people. Not important. 

 

The licking continued for what felt like forever, even as the guards began to draw close, each one holding up some kind of silver thing in their hands. Not that Tony cared, he was too busy not moving, like Not-Breathing said. 

 

“Good boy,” it whispered, apparently done licking him. It tilted Tony’s head up to study him properly now. “I could kill you right now.”

 

Sure, Tony knew that. Obviously. 

 

“You killed Todd,” he stated, in too much of a haze to think why he said that. Did it kill Todd? Who was Todd? Dead, apparently. 

 

The creature smirked, tilted it’s head to one side. “I know not who it is you speak of,” it purred, “But it is very likely that I _did_.”

 

Then, it let him go. All of him, his wrists were free, the green eyes were gone, leaving his mind clear, and sweaty guard hands were yanking him away from the cage. 

 

It was back in the corner, like it never moved. Only its eyes tracked him as they dragged Tony out of the room, and closed the curtain. 

 

* * *

 

 

They tried to blame him for it, even claiming they would ban him from the zoo indefinitely. Tony thought Steve might have stepped in at that point, probably saying the perfect thing to make them listen. Tony didn’t remember getting in the car, or arriving at the tower, or sitting on his bed. 

 

It was hours later before he remembered that he _was_ a breathing thing, and decided to never again doubt the intellectual challenges of animals.

 

One day later, everyone knew about the vampire in the Central Park zoo.

 

 

 


	2. Buried Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People suck, because they're selfish, obsessive, laughing-little-jerks, and... and...
> 
> What was he talking about again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [not betad]

 

 

**They had promised him redemption.**

 

**They _promised_. **

 

**But he had known better, this time.**

**Just like all the times before,**

**when he knew better and trusted them anyway.**

 

**It had not mattered, because they did as they always did.**

 

**They forgot.**

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

News breaks in waves. It doesn’t matter what channel you’re tuning into, or who shared it first on twitter, news comes at you wave after wave until you’re bowled over and drowning in it. That’s just how people are with information. When something big happens, they like to put it on repeat and make damn sure you’ve seen every speck of footage they’re _allowed_ to show on live TV, and then release the ‘uncut’ footage through some 2-bit website run by apathetic 20 year-olds. 

 

Billionaire kidnapped? Video of him with some terrorist? Full close up footage of the way they pistol whip him?

 

_Hell_ yeah, let’s play that on the 1PM news, the 5PM news—pause for a cute cat video—and here we go, it’s midnight and you’ve seen the same horrific footage twenty times already. 

 

They will drill it into you, make sure you notice things like the bruises, or blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, the ‘ _obvious torture the poor man has endured.’_ And then people make all the same comments on it, like, ‘ _I can’t even_ ,’ or, ‘ _OMG #TonyStarkishotevenwhentortured.’_

 

 

By the second week of the Vampire Exhibit at the Central Park Zoo, Tony had seen the same 50 seconds of footage from someone’s Iphone—gag—of his fucking eyebrow being licked by a vampire only about six million times. 

 

“ _In a shocking turn of events_ —“

 

“Tony Stark gets eyebrow-fucked by skinny dude in cage,” Clint interrupted. 

 

“Hey!” Tony yelled from the kitchen. “News stations are banned in my tower! Turn it off!” 

 

“— _the billionaire was_ —“ 

 

“Face-suckered by skeleton in front of children,” Natasha offered.

 

Tony shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and stomped into the living room, chewing angrily. Clint was sprawled across Natasha’s lap, his bare feet resting on the edge of the couch, his head tucked into the red-head’s lap. It was gross, and they were ignoring his loud chewing completely. 

 

“Yooouuuu,” he hissed, spraying bits of lettuce and mustard at Clint. “Turn it off, or I’ll make sure all your arrows do nothing more than blast Christmas carols for the rest of your miserable life.”

 

Clint looked up, wildly unimpressed, and flicked a chunk of green from his face. “But we’re almost to the best part.” 

 

“You’re almost to an eviction.” 

 

“— _This shocking footage_ —“

 

“They use that word a lot,” Natasha mused, turning the TV volume up. “Someone should buy them a thesaurus. I can think of a dozen other words for ‘shocking.’”

 

“Disturbing,” suggested Clint. 

 

“Stupefying.” 

 

“Fearful.” 

 

Tony offered up his own, “Heinous.”

 

“Ooh, good one, but I don’t think this counts as heinous.” 

 

“I’ll use it in a sentence.” Tony paused and cleared his throat. “For the heinous crime of not listening to the lord of the house, Barton and Romanoff are hereby sentenced to dish duty every Steve-Breakfast morning until the lord decides otherwise.”  

 

“Don’t be petty,” Natasha chided, and leaned her head back to look at him over the back of the couch. “You’re always on the news, only this time you have all your clothes on and they’re licking your eyebrow, not your—“

 

“Loathsome!” Clint yelled. 

 

“We’re done with that, we’ve moved on to mocking Stark again.”

 

“No, _we_ have _not_ ,” Tony grunted. But it was too late, they were laughing because—oh wonderful—the video was playing again, and like every other time it came on screen, Tony just _had_ to watch it. Shaky, hand-held footage aside, there was something intensely compelling about it, like the moment was immortalized in perfect clarity. Tony could still feel the creature’s breath on his face, the gentle—albeit cold and slimy—touch of the thing’s tongue against his skin. The way the warmth of his blood seemed to give those hollow cheeks a faint blush of actual human-colored skin, or those eyes. 

 

_Those impossible eyes._

 

Tony’s legs began to shake, and he tore himself away from the video and the cackling of his evil teammates who _were_ going to do Steve’s sticky syrup dishes from now until they died. They could laugh all they want, but Tony couldn’t bring himself to crack jokes about it like he usually did.

 

It was like this every time the memory popped back up, and nothing seemed to help it fade away except time and a shit-ton of distractions. So he threw himself back into his work, locked away from any news, social media, or stupid teammates, and blasted his music. 

By midnight, he almost felt human again. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A week later, Fox News received an anonymous donation of a very expensive hard-cover thesaurus with all the pages ripped out but one.

 

In the ’S’ section. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Stark.”

 

“How are you, Saint Nick?” 

 

“ _Stark_.”

 

“Nicky.”

 

“…” 

 

“Nicki?” 

 

“Answer my question.” 

 

“You didn’t answer mine,” Tony pointed out, “But you don’t hear _me_ complaining.” 

 

“I asked first,” Fury reminded him. “Now answer me before I drag you down to the interrogation rooms, myself. What did you do in Romania?” 

 

Ah, it was all boring questions, as usual. One day they would ask him how he gained access to every security system in America in one (very drunk) night, and why, of all things, did he make them play ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’? One day, they’d notice how many pies he had his fingers in, but today was not that day.

 

Tony leaned back in his seat, squinted at the director through his sunglasses, offering the best unimpressed scowl he could manage. They had dragged him away from his _important_ projects to the most monochromatic tin-can of a room he had ever seen in his entire life, _and_ they left him there to _rot_ until Fury stomped in an hour late and sat down with one of those glares that meant Tony did something wrong. Which was rude, because he didn’t do anything this time. No mayhem, not even a single fire, or explosion, or kidnapping. And besides, what did he want with this Romania crap? He already asked him that right after they got back on the plane.

 

“I’ll tell you again,” he said, slowly and loudly. “I stood there… I got yelled at… I did some yelling, oh, and I got threatened by my best buddy. Then, I walked back on to the plane and left. That was the entirety of my fabulous trip to Romania. Sorry I didn’t snap any pictures with the angry government officials, I don’t think they knew how to flash any good gang signs or, you know, smile.” 

 

“Well, those are the same government officials who are claiming you ‘tainted’ their product.” 

 

“Their product being…?” 

 

Fury made a face like he’d rather be eating Rice Crispy Treats off the back of a bear—the human kind—than say the words, “The _vampire_.”

 

Tony tipped his chair forward and rested his elbows on the table. This way, Fury didn’t have to see they way his hands shook when the topic came up. And holy shit, were they shaking.

 

“Right, because I got anywhere near the dig site by standing _literally_ five feet away from my jet. All I did was—“

 

“Suddenly decided to fly across the ocean for no god damn reason other than, ‘I saw something cool on TV’,” the Director snapped. “Then, you proceed to insult some very important men, come home, and get assaulted by the same damn thing they dug up. You really want me to believe that’s a coincidence?” 

 

“Okay, firstly—“ 

 

“And _how_ did you manage that, again?” Fury continued over him. “That thing’s locked in a cage, and you gotta be the stupidest guy in the world to walk right up to the bars and _bleed_ all over them. And now you’re, what, moping about it?”  

 

A muscle in Tony’s jaw twitched. He actually kind of preferred Clint’s almost-goodnatured ribbing, over this. At least the team—sans Bruce—was downright silly about the whole thing, whereas Fury was just being a dick and rubbing his face in it. Not that he had any idea how bad the lingering after effects of the whole ordeal have been for Tony. Wait, unless he _did_ know? But how? SHIELD couldn’t hack JARVIS if Tony left a trail of eye patches for them to follow, so the only other way is if someone told them. Someone like—

 

“Rogers told you, didn’t he?” 

 

Fury’s lips twitched into a smirk. 

 

“God… damn… Goody-Two-Shoes-Son-of-a-Bitch.”

 

 

“Actually, it was Banner,” Fury said. “You got the guy worryin’ about you, Stark. Stop stressing my scientist out, and don’t run off to any more foreign countries any time soon.”

 

Tony glowered at the man and for once in his life, decided not to argue. He hated being told what to do, he hated talking about his feelings, he hated medium sized coffee cups, he hated when other people were late, but most of all, he hated when people he knew talked about him behind his back. Like, serious talking, not poking fun at his stupid eyebrow-moment. What did Bruce think was going to happen, that Fury would intimidate him into admitting how fucked up he’s been since the incident? 

 

Betrayed. He felt utterly betrayed, and kind of confused. 

 

_Well, fuck that then._

 

“I didn’t ‘taint’ their human-trafficking project, so please pass this on to them,” he replied, standing up and flipping the director off. “Oh, and feel free to keep a little of that for yourself, too. Are we done? We’re done, great, I have a lunch date with Satan that I just _can’t_ miss.” Tony kicked his chair back in, and let the door slam behind him on his way out. 

 

“Stark!”

 

“Tony Stark is not available, please leave a message!” Tony called back. 

 

The door behind him opened, and Fury’s voice carried down the hall, “Don’t go near that vampire, Stark. You hear me?” 

 

He _did_ hear him, he just didn’t listen. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Tony did not like animals, but it wasn’t anything personal. There were no traumatic memories like dog bites, or run away cats, or stepped-on gerbils. He just never got along with animals, and it probably had a lot to do with growing up with parents who couldn’t raise _him_ , never mind a puppy. That, and he made robots instead of friends. Tony never really got the hang of dealing with living things.

 

But, you don’t actually have to like them to know when something’s off. Take the snow leopards, for example. His suit wasn’t quiet on a good day, and landing was typically a pretty loud process with all the fire and thumping into the ground, and the dissembling of his suit. The big cats didn’teven startle awake from their sleep and start yowling, or run away, or come closer, or do _anything_ one might expect them to do when a flying metal man who spouts fire lands right beside their den. They were just sitting there, on the farthest edge of their enclosure, staring off towards the center of the zoo with their creepy, luminescent cat eyes.

 

Tony ignored the bad feeling crawling around in his organs, and walked right past them, some kind of red stripy rodent thing—the sign said they were pandas but clearly someone messed up—and after that, some ugly monkeys. All of them were wide awake, silent, and staring towards Tony’s destination. 

 

_That_ was unnerving. Just a little bit. 

 

Then there was the fact that the two guards who were supposed to be standing outside of the building were mysteriously missing. Oh, and then the two guards who were supposed to be inside the front doors, the ones who ran the metal detector and glared at Tony during the long, irritating process of explaining that there’s _nothing_ they can do about the metal in his chest, so fuck off. They were missing, too. The guy who had the key for the inner door was gone, and the door was all nice and not closed. 

 

Nope, no longer unnerving. Just totally fucking _terrifying_. 

 

“I smell you.”

 

Tony faltered just outside the open door. One: because he had heard that voice only one time before, and one time was really all you needed, thanks. Two: Because there was a trail of blood leading into the dark beyond the vault-like door which was probably the final sign to get the hell out of there. 

 

“Uh… I can kind of smell you too,” Tony answered, still lingering outside the door. The mystery of the missing guards was solved, he should leave.

 

 He wasn’t leaving.

 

“Can you?” the thing mused, an odd, raspy sound filling the air. “How curious.” 

 

Shifting to his other foot for better balance, Tony peered through the door towards the cell. He couldn’t see much other than the soft glint of red off of the bars from the security light. Whether or not the power was supposed to be on, he had no clue, but the blood and the lack of people was not a good sign. Yet, stupidly enough, he didn’t seem to want to leave. 

 

Tony took another step closer, and tried to see past the bars into the shadowed corners of the cell. “I can smell what you ate for dinner, anyway. Nothing like New York mall cops to fatten you up.” 

 

“I do not get ‘fat’,” the thing sniffed. 

 

“Could still clog your arteries.”

 

“I sincerely doubt that. Nor does it matter since I have no dire need for my heart to beat more quickly than it already does.”

  
Tony stepped into the room like an idiot, and continued to argue, “But one clot could bug up the whole system. I bet you’ll have arterial plaque by next week thanks to the sheer number of hotdogs ingested in this city.” 

 

And it was right about then that Tony began to wonder what he was saying, and doing, and _how in the hell did he get here?_ Why was it that he couldn’t remember leaving the tower? His steps faltered as he passed something unrecognizable on the floor, and _I should leave, I should leave, I need to leave right now. Please, I need to—_

 

A low hiss cut off his panicked thoughts, leaving him calm and a little hazy as to what set him off in the first place. 

 

_Weird_ , _the thing is still in the cell_ , he thought, because no one else was outside of the cell but him. No one at all. That lump on the floor wasn’t alive— it wasn’t…

 

What was he doing again?

 

It spoke, “I did not call you here to discuss trivial things with you. I have need of your… services.” 

 

“Can I see you?” he blurted out, stepping up to the bars and peering through almost desperately. He just needed to see him, and everything would be alright. 

 

If he could see him. 

 

Another death-rattle laugh, and a warm glow of green formed in front of him. It slowly rose towards the ceiling, casting heavy shadows over them and making the thing look even less human. 

 

“You are an eager one,” it replied, stepping close enough for Tony to feel its breath on his face. A tiny, Bruce-like voice was screaming in the back of his head, telling him to figure it out, _figure out what’s wrong here!_  

 

“I’ve never… been eager in my life,” Tony tried to argue, the words feeling odd in his mouth. It sounded like something he would say, but _it_ didn’t seem to like that. He shouldn’t have said that. 

 

The thing hissed something under its breath, and Tony melted against the bars with a stupid grin. Yes, he was eager. He was so happy to be here, he’d always wanted a… wanted… 

 

He tilted he head against the bars and asked, “Nnwassn?” 

 

“Oh my pet,” it purred, cold fingers tracing Tony’s chin as it drew closer. “You have lost your words. Try again, for me?” 

 

Tony smiled and leaned into the touch, as though it was comforting and warm, not cold and clammy, _and sharp sharp nails near his throat—move Tony! Run!_  

 

“Wast.. what’s yeerr naammmee?” 

 

It smiled at him. So kind, what a kind thing—oh yes, please, come closer…

 

Chapped lips brushed against his, and the vampire whispered, “My name is Loki.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

4 hours later, Tony fell into the cot tucked away in his workroom with a smile, and promptly passed out. 

 

23 hours after that, Bruce woke him up with tea, and asked if he was feeling sick, because he was so _pale_. 

 

“Of course not,” he answered. “I’m feeling a lot better.” 

 

“You don’t look better,” Bruce argued, setting the tea down and leaning in to take Tony’s temperature. “Have you been working for… What, the past two days?” 

 

Tony blinked at him a few times, remembering something about snow leopards, before memories of working on his new suit designs filled his head. 

 

“Yeah, that’s what I was doing. Working.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

3,587 miles away, the news was turned on in the house for the first time in two months. And, because they hadn’t gotten bored of it yet, BBC news was showing the same eyebrow-licking footage as they had been for the past two weeks. 

 

“— _This disturbing footage of a vampire—that’s right, a real live vampire in the middle of New York City—licking the infamous billionaire, Tony Stark’s face_ —“

 

The phone rang, and was answered immediately.

 

“Father, have you seen…?” 

 

“Yes, I am watching it now.”

 

“It cannot be him, surely he is—“

 

“It is him,” the older man interrupted. “I know the faces of my sons.” 

 

“But… I buried him!” 

 

The old man stood, and turned the TV off. 

 

“Not deep enough, Thor. Not deep enough.” 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -claps like a seal-


	3. Own Your Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where no one listens to their Voice of Reason, and it doesn't really matter because they live and breathe unreasonable. 
> 
> [ Poem is: I Sing the Body Electric by WALT WHITMAN. ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betad. Written in a single burst at the whee hours of the night. Forgive me.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,_

_And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons._

 

_This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,_

_The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners,_

_These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,_

_He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,_

_They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him…_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“To your left you will see a diagram of the first Arc Reactor, once dreamed up by Howard Stark in the mid-1970’s. His original concept was the base of his son’s, Tony Stark, smaller, more compact design that saved his life in 2001, when he was kidnapped and held hostage by a terrorist group in Afghanistan. Now, to your right—“ 

 

“You will see a life time of regrets,” Tony muttered, shoving another Twizzler in his mouth. He was supposed to be on stage in the lecture hall in ten minutes to tell all those little tater-tots down there all about how fabulous invention and science is and why they should apply for the Stark Scholarship before graduating high school because, “ _There’s a genius in each and every one of you._ ” Cue wink, smile, applause. 

 

If he got up now, he could make it just in time. But he wasn’t getting up, he eating Twizzlers and sitting on the super-secret pathway that went above all the exhibits so technicians could change light bulbs, and probably spit on visitors.

 

_Now there’s an idea._

 

_‘No.’_

 

Tony frowned. His Second Voice, or his so-called Voice of Reason didn’t usually sound like that. It typically sounded like a combination of Bruce, Steve, and Howard—which was probably why he never listened to reason, and did the exact opposite of reason. Like sitting up here eating candy instead of giving the same pep-talk he gave every year to a bunch of kids who were more interested in getting a free Stark Pad than applying for a scholarship to, you know, learn things. 

 

Maybe he could get a Twizzler into the fake Arc Reactor exhibit. The air currents were perfect for this sort of thing—and he would know, he had tested it out before allowing them to even build the Stark Industries Museum of Science and Technology. Or, better know as: SIMST, which was more fun to say, _and_ it irritated Pepper. 

 

“SIMST, SIMST, SIMST,” Tony whispered, taking aim with a glorious, red, twisty candy. 

_‘Don’t.’_

 

And there it was again, weird alternate Voice of Reason. Whatever, it didn’t matter, he never listened to it anyway. 

 

Tony held his breath, and chucked the Twizzler as hard as he could, watching it arch gracefully through the air before he realized it wasn’t going to make it, and, in fact, it was probably about to hit the blonde lady who was just ushering the kids under Tony’s hiding spot. There was a split second where Tony just _knew_ it would hit her. It would land in her hair, and then she would turn around, looking right up at him in shock and horror and—nope, Tony was on the move before the piercing shriek even hit the air. 

 

And just was he was scrambling down the back stairs to freedom, Tony thought he heard his Voice of Reason chuckle. 

 

* * *

  
He forgot what he did for the rest of the day, and there was a gap in the evening the day after that, too. Actually, there were a lot of gaps, which might have been normal, but Tony didn’t think he was getting _that_ drunk—and besides, he always remembered the first twenty shots, at the least. 

 

He actually couldn’t recall the last time he even picked up a drink, which was the point where he started to worry about himself a little bit. 

 

So, he did what any paranoid-possibly crazy person would do. He locked himself in his lab, and talked to an AI. 

 

“Awaken, my beauties,” Tony chirped, clapping his hands, and spinning around in his chair dramatically. Well, it would have been dramatic if it didn’t make in him super dizzy. Weird. 

 

“What can I help you with, sir?”

 

“JARVIS, my buddy, my pal, my dah-ling—I need you to give me a spread of the video feeds around my room foooooooor the past week, starting on Monday and ending on this morning.”

 

“Shall I include the entrances and exits of the building as well, sir?”

 

Tony frowned, and squinted up at the dozens of camera squares that opened up before him. JARVIS didn’t usually do something without being told, unless he knew something that Tony didn’t. 

 

“Okaaay, why?” he asked, pulling his hands out from his body and spreading the screens around him in a panoramic view. This way, he could see each day in order, one shot of his bed, one of the hallway outside of his room, and five views from all the doors leading to the outside. 

 

“I think this might be what you are looking for,” JARVIS replied, enlarging the back door camera for two of the days, the launch deck for all the others. In the first two, Tony saw himself walk out the door—just walking, causally, like he had all the time in the world and it wasn’t 2AM on a Monday night. Oh, and to top that weirdness off, he was carrying his Suit-in-a-case with him, which was a massive, huge, _enormous_ no-no. But it got better, because on the other screens, it was him suiting up and taking off into the god-damn air. In the middle of the night. Totally casual. 

 

Just going out for a sleep-fly, apparently. 

 

“Is there a reason you didn’t bring this to my attention—oh, let’s say, _at any point before now?!_ ” 

 

“You gave me instructions to remain silent about the matter, sir.”

 

“Uh, _no_?” Tony argued, glaring up at the image of him taking off and landing again several hours later. “No, I did not.”

 

“ _—Do you understand, JARVIS?_ ” His own voice said, and there he was, staring into the camera with half lidded eyes and a weird smile on his face. 

 

_“Sir, I don’t—“_

 

_“Keep this off the record, alright?”_ on-screen Tony drawled. _“Don’t tell anyone, not even me.”_

 

_“I understand, sir.”_

 

Tony glared up at himself, sputtering angrily, “That was obviously—there’s obviously something wrong with me, for fucks sake!” 

 

There was one of those tiny pauses full of judgment before JARVIS answered, “I checked your blood alcohol levels each time you left and returned, sir. Other than mild anemia, nothing seems to be wrong.” 

 

“ _Anemia_?” Tony scoffed, looking away from his own weird-smile-face on screen. “What am I, some Victorian maiden with the vapors?” 

 

“Anemia is a condition marked by a deficiency of red blood cells or of hemoglobin in the blood, resulting in pallor and—“ 

 

“Again,” Tony snapped, “Victorian. Vapors. Since when?” 

 

The images of him sleep-escaping were replaced with several different charts, and yes, thank you for your sass, JARVIS, there was the definition of Anemia, again. Tony tilted his head to once side. As far as he could tell, his so-called anemia was getting worse as time went on, and his sleep schedule seemed to revolve around his mysterious outings more than his work time, which was… weird. 

 

“Is this accurate?—Of course it is, but seriously, I fall asleep every time I come back?” he asked, dragging one of the charts closer. The fact that JARVIS was keeping track of all this, even after he told him not to tell anyone was kind of amazing. Like, maybe borderline scary. 

 

“Why _are_ you telling me this now, if I expressly told you not to?” 

 

“You went looking into it first, sir. I assumed I was allowed to assist you.”

 

Tony huffed a quiet, “You think you’re so smart…” and rolled around some more. He had noticed—god forbid, there was no other word for it—a _weakness_ in his body lately. Getting up from bed took longer, his body felt stiff and lax at the same time, like he was going out running for six hours, then getting run over by one of those flattening machine things. What were those called? Road Rollers? Road compactor? Roller-compactor? 

 

“Sir…?” 

 

“Put in an order for a—what?” he asked, cutting himself off mid-thought. He didn’t need a road-whatsit. Probably. Maybe later. 

 

“Might I suggest we set up a motion-activated alert for when you use your suit again?”

 

Tony ran his hands through his hair, and down his face a few times, trying to think this through. If this was… hell, who knows—dementia? If this was something like that, then he should probably lock himself in his room or chain himself to the bed. But, he also kind of wanted to know where the hell he was going.

 

“Alright, yeah, let’s do that,” he said, turning back to the drifting screens behind him. There was a whole lot of mystery going on here, and somewhere in the back of his head he had this nagging thought—this crazy whisper that kept telling him that _he knows. He knows what this is._

 

_Breath against his skin—false—how? Breathless being pretending—he’s pretending to be human for fun, for ‘sport’._

 

_He says ‘sport’ like it’s a really good joke._

 

_Cold fingers and sharp teeth._

 

_You know what this is, Tony._

 

_You know._

_You know._

_You know._

 

A tray of tools went clattering to the floor as he rolled back just a little too far, and smashed into the desk with his chair. Tony blinked a few times, trying to catch that last train of thought and failing. 

 

JARVIS had suggested motion-activated recording in the suit. It was a good idea. 

 

“Alright,” he said, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The moon was strong tonight, not that he could feel its full effects when he was trapped like this. He may be able to call those little mortals over for him to feed, to take care of the bodies he accidentally left in front of his cage, to forget what happened, but he could not ever get them to release him. Something in their pathetic little minds struggled against his will whenever he purred it in their ear, or whispered it with their blood in his mouth. The simply did not listen, and Loki was feeling anger again for the fist time in months.   
  
Oh, it wasn’t a terribly rare thing for his kind to feel things, such as sadness, temptation, or betrayal. He woke to anger when he clawed his way out of the grave. He woke to a maddening fury that left him blind and deaf to anything but the chanting in his blood to kill, to eat, to take _revenge_. 

 

Which was all rather pointless, really, since those he wished revenge upon were long since gone. Well, not gone, per se, just not _there_ anymore. Their scents lingered ever so faintly in the earth around his coffin, scant whiff of their traitorous stench that clung to the church they thought amusing to bury him under. Did they hope for his redemption? Did they ask Priszlop if he could be saved? 

 

Loki scoffed into the dark, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of hatred. If he had only gone with the Mongols—but no, they were barbaric people, no matter how clever their battle tactics were. Loki would not sleep in smelly tents filled with skins and unwashed bodies—no, he could not do it. Besides, they were withdrawing at the time, which did not appeal to Loki in the least. He liked his home in Borona, at the time. Plenty to eat, many warm bodies to fill his bed night after night. It was much better than where they had come from, with those traitors who drove them out with curses from their new god. Loki did not like to think of that time, to go from Gods themselves to demons in the blink of an eye.   
  
And oh, how it went to his family’s heads. Truly convinced that they were _so_ much better, now that they were a part of this _new_ religion. That they were somehow more real as a creature of the dark, than when they were seen as light, as fire, as fertility. How was it _better_? Loki could never understand this idea of change they encompassed so eagerly. Religions came and went, that was a fact, and only fools believed they were stronger for their ability to bow under the new law. 

 

Loki stood from his spot in the corner, and dusted his ugly rag-dress off. He needn’t think of such things, not when he would have company tonight. It had been a long day of fat, blood filled faces gawking at him behind that silver chain of theirs, and Loki was glad for nightfall more and more each time. Because he could be himself, again. Because his company would come, and with it came warm blood and foolish jokes, and that strange little struggle…

 

Loki just might admit that he liked the fact that the Stark mortal persevered against his suggestions of freedom. The guards were no fun, their arguments were droll and honor-filled. But Stark, he would come up with the most ridiculous reasons why he could not let Loki out. 

  
Last time had been about some red creature that may be named a ‘Panda’, but might also not be. 

 

The outer door opened, and Loki was already smiling as he took a deep breath of the rusty, metal scent that always… 

 

The scent was wrong, it was not him. 

 

“I did not expect such a cage to keep you.” 

 

Loki felt an overwhelming wave of shame, first. Shame for his rag-dress, his starved body, lank hair. Shame for his inability to escape, for his almost subservient behavior.But it did not last, because he knew that voice, and with that voice came that rage once again. 

 

“I did not expect you to still live,” Loki replied smoothly, only to spit out the false-name, “ _brother_.”

 

“Why would I not? I was not the one who flaunted our nature to the humans,” Thor huffed, stopping just before the silver chain. 

 

“You say ‘flaunt’, I say ‘enjoy’.” 

 

 

Thor simply stood, and stared at him with red-tinted eyes. Loki knew it was an allusion from the light, for his brother’s eyes remained blue, even after the change. He would always appear pure, no matter how rotten he was underneath. 

 

“What did you come here for?” Loki asked, not approaching the bars of his cage. He did not want—he could not go near him. Because under all his anger, all the bitterness, all the pain—there was fear. 

 

But he could smirk, and act as though he was not caged up by mortals, as though he had some pride left. 

 

“Please tell me you didn’t come all this way to fight me again,” Loki sighed, shaking his head with such disappointment. “We both know I shall win.”

 

Thor paused—as if waiting for something just out of the edge of his hearing—until something shifted, and he smiled. 

 

“Oh, but I have not come alone, Loki.” 

 

The smell of copper filled the air, the scent of an oncoming storm, the very moment before the lightning struck. 

 

Loki’s smirk fell from his face. 

 

This was not the company he had wished, this was not what he had planned. He was unready for this—he was—he—

 

He was scared. 

 

“Son…” 

 

One word from the lips of his father, and Loki almost felt the grave dirt fill his mouth yet again. It was crashing in, crushing him under the cold, dank scent of rot—and he didn’t remember backing into his corner again, or curling up behind his knees. He didn’t remember when the smooth drawl of his voice became a panicked whimper of, “Please. _Please_ , _please_ , _Father, please_ —“ 

 

He forgot what happened next, but there was the scent of metal—his guest, his _original_ guest—the color of red, a screech of metal, and moonlight on his face. 

 

Apparently, he had finally found the right words to set himself free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki said the magic word.


End file.
